Romance Outsourcing: Tales of a Mail Order Bride Tour

A bus full of American men wearing dress shirts and ironed slacks is heading towards a Latina bikini contest held in a castle once owned by the textile king of Medellin. (His notoriety: The first man in Colombia kidnapped and held for ransom.) Passing Plaza Botero, nervousness fills the air – like one would have if they were off to meet their future wife.

“What the f*ck would I want to go to Kiev for? It’s just a nuclear plant right next to Chernobyl,” exclaims Earl from Oregon, ranting about international online dating. “Russia is run by the Mafia. You’re not always chatting with the girl in the profile.” Earl looks like he’s had some hard living. Earlier he boasted about being a stockbroker (“I lost a million dollars in one day”) and a former heroin addict. Sitting next to Earl is a silent Colombian woman. She’ll soon be Earl’s wife. Neither of them can speak each other’s language. The two will be married in a few days.

“Did you meet anyone last night you liked?” he asks Brady – a fellow tour member from Michigan.

“I met a girl I was chatting with over emails the last few months, but she was trying to occupy all my time,” he replies. “Tomorrow I’m going to meet her parents.”

Medellin Colombia has been considered one of the ten most dangerous tourist destinations in the world. These men have paid $1,595 plus airfare to fly to City of Eternal Spring for the AmoLatino mail order bride tour. The six-day romance excursion is trumpeted as: “The ultimate guys holiday – the women are a bonus. You’re immediately immersed in great friends and very beautiful women who are intrigued by you.”

Men sign up for these mail order bride tours for every reason under the holy Jesus sun – ranging from marriage to carnal lust. “Everyone has something they’re after and we understand that,” says Larry Cervantes. In a previous life, Larry worked in film distribution for George Lucas’s company. Now he organizes mail order bride tours from an office in Moscow. Similar to the Hair Club for Men, not only is Larry a tour organizer, but he’s also a former client.

Morning Briefing

No one wants to die alone. I don’t. You don’t. Neither do the twenty-four men who sit in a conference room on the 2nd floor of the Hotel Dann Carlton.

“You gentlemen are about to join a select group of guys who haven’t experienced what you are about to experience,” Larry says at the first day briefing to the brood of bride-seekers: middle-aged men who run life’s gauntlet. Divorced. Thrice divorced. Widowed. Never married. Some with grown children who they want to keep this secret from. (Insisting I don’t use their real names.) These are men who are now looking for something different; real estate agents, oil industry engineers, software programmers, blue collar guys, and ex-military.

“You wont find the numbers you will when you come back to the U.S. Colombia is a place with an enormous amount of beautiful women – we tapped into it.” Larry says. He mentions there must be something in the water. Big laughs. Conversely: “This isn’t a tourist town. Be aware of your surroundings – this city has a history for a reason!” (Will finding a mail order bride cost someone his life?!)

Like a General Patton of romance tours, Larry continues his briefing: “It’s a good idea to go on double dates. Most of the women can’t speak English,” he says, while the men diligently take notes. “Dress as best as you can. This is a big deal for a lot of the ladies – you represent their possible future mate.” Finally: “Be the man and take control of the situation.”

Problems arise when the man doesn’t take control. If the lady is allowed to choose the restaurant, the man could suddenly finds her entourage growing to include her relatives, neighbors, and extended family. The man might momentarily step away only to discover a bottle of Dom Perignon magically appearing on the table. “When you’re out, it’s all on your dime,” Larry stresses. “This is your responsibility.” Once again: “Be in control! The lady doesn’t get the choice!”

In my notebook I scrawl: “Take control of situation.”

“My team is here to help you set up individual dates, meet girls, and have a good experience,” he says, gesturing to two lovely, young Russian women by his side. “We’re also here if you need a shoulder to cry on.”

Some last advice before the troops cut loose on foreign soil: “The worst thing I hear from a guy on the tour: ‘I came to meet this lady – she is my world,’” Larry states. “The saddest thing is sitting on that plane home and regretting what you should have done.” Solemnly: “Guys, it’s a long way to come for a blind date – you’re going to have so much choice. This is a grand Shangri-La of women. Happy hunting!” As the men get up out of their chairs, Larry adds, “Find your princess!”

Hundreds of Women and a Dancing Midget

Barry – an engineer at Cisco looks around the room at the surreal sight. “I’ve been chatting to a couple of girls online. They’re both showed up,” he says with little kid excitement. Though he’s has never met either of the women in person, the fact that he trekked from Virginia to Medellin weighs in his corner: “It indicates that I’m serious.” A large queue of muchachas – mostly in their late teens and early twenties – continues to check in at the registration desk. Dressed in their nightclub best, 480 women have registered for tonight’s social at Mangos: a Wild West themed nightclub in the heart of Medellin. The club is like fantasy batting camp for these middle-aged gents; table after table of beautiful Colombian women – a parallel universe where young Latino maidens quest the loins of older men from faraway lands. “You think it would be competitive, but there’s so many women here,” Barry says with a smile. “There’s a mutual respect amongst guys.”

American men wearing nice dress pants attempt to do the booty dance. The energy of the frenzied club swells; fueled by Club Colombia beer and free tequila shots. I’ve never seen anything like it.

“Don’t lock in too early; the lady will try and occupy your time,” Larry says, providing some last minute advice to a pack of guys. “You want to move around the room. Don’t spend too much time at one table.”

The sharks circle the cage – on the prowl for their Colombian trophy wives. An estrogen-charged fervor – normally reserved for Chippendales dancers – is directed towards the twenty-four men on the AmoLatino tour. Bart – a grey haired, retired high school principal takes his place at a table with four women; holding court as if he were royalty or a famous celebrity like MC Hammer.

“The lady has every reason to shoot you down in this situation, but it doesn’t happen,” explains Chris – an independently wealthy nightclub owner from Liverpool. “The social helps build confidence. Many of these men have had bad relationships and need that ego massage to make them feel good about themselves.”

The insane 20-to-1 ratio has left the majority of women unattended. Expectations. Optimism. Boredom. Doubt. Fertile young Latino women. Older American men with money. The room running the course of life’s emotions; the ritual of courting broken down to the bare minimum.

“Back home a younger woman doesn’t want an older man. But here they do,” says Fernando – a truck driver from Fresno who drove his rig all the way to Miami so he could catch his flight. Single since 2003, he adjusts his cowboy hat and explains why he’s here. “American women want you to work, work, work, so they can spend, spend, spend,” he says.

Now it gets real. Two hunky shirtless guys covered in oil suddenly appear on top of the bar gyrating to the club music – working up the ladies. Female screams of delight. The booty dance comes out. So does a dancing midget. (Colombia is a culture where midgets are considered very funny.)

Taking in the sea of energized women, Ethan – a machine builder from Indiana, sums up his prospects: “I’m just playing it by ear and see what happens. I’ll just go with the flow and see what works,” he says, explaining more about his romance outsourcing: “I dated girls back home who didn’t want to go out with a man who made less than $150k per year.“

“How did they let you take time off work?” I ask, slugging back my beer and taking in the charged electricity set to the thumping beat of music.

“It was a bit difficult, but I begged, pleaded, and screamed,” he says with a laugh.

Larry advised if you see a girl you want to connect with, ask a translator to make an introduction – because she might not speak English. A group of lovely Medellin college girls act as the tour’s translators. Not to overshadow someone’s potential future wife, they’re told not to wear anything provocative. “A good translator does a great job at playing wingman,” Ethan says. “They kind of break the ice and talk you up – that sort of thing.”

Example of typical things translated:

“Do you have children?”
“You have lovely teeth.”
“Are you married?”

Some translators change the meaning of the men’s words. One of the guys wanted to ask a woman: “Will you stand up and do the booty dance?”
“I just didn’t think it was appropriate,” explains our table’s translator.
“Why do you think a lot of the women are here?” I ask, while a few guys linger around the room like high school social studies teachers at a school dance.

“In Colombia everyone from outside is seen as better,” she says,
explaining her country’s self-esteem. “Better jobs. Better money. Better life. It’s an opportunity to move to America.”

The oily muscular duo continues to gyrate. Is this pair the physical ideal for the majority of women here? Has social-economic circumstances left them to settle for different options? Everyone has something to offer. The older men represent security. The young Colombian women represent not dying alone. Everyone has needs.

I stand at the bar with Adrian, a former British diplomat who ditched that life to run the local AmoLatino office. On stage, women in a line take turns doing an overly sexual dance that involves squatting near a phallic-shaped, upright beer bottle. (Could one of them be the future Mrs. Leon?) “We’re selling happiness,” Adrian says, as an older woman’s gyrating squat-thrusts puts her younger competition to shame. “I can’t think of anything more satisfying.”

The midget looks tired. As the social winds down, the young, fertile women have worn these guys out. They start leaving as they arrived: in packs. Like war victims in the aftermath of a bomb explosion, a few men stagger around the room drunk – trying to make some last minute connections with women. Dazed. Disorientated. Confused. Moving around the club; contorted with drunkenness and amorous, post-traumatic stress disorder.

Big Bumps

The scene at the castle is breathtaking. The ornate villa is nestled on the side of a hill. Medellin’s outstretching valley sparkles below like a rare fruit. Hors d’oeuvre are served and punch flows. Droves of women walk past a fountain filled with red rose pedals. The James Bond fantasy continues for the men with the female-heavy social initiating inside a room with white couches.

“I might have already blown it,” says Ethan, looking jittery; standing away from the socializing. “I think there was alcohol in that punch. I’m not supposed to drink when I’m on my medication,” he clarifies.

“Did you meet a lot of potential women last night?” I ask.

“Ah, a few. There wasn’t too many I was terribly interested in because I found it really hard to talk to because of the language barrier.” (Pause.) “I need to get enough caffeine in me to counter act the punch.”

Grabbing a punch, I’m signaled over by an attractive medical student I met last night at Mangos. She’s flirty; touching my knee while speaking in Spanish. (I see the appeal.)

I say to my translator, “Ask her why she’s here tonight.”

A one to two-minute downtime while my message is translated.
I wait patiently. More translating. Finally: “She says, ‘My heart is broken and I’m looking for someone to fix it.’”

The lovely medical student makes a sad face.

“Can you ask her why she can’t she find guys on her own?” I question. “She’s going to be a doctor soon.”

Another two-minute downtime while my message is translated.
I wait patiently. More translating. Then: “She likes a guy here – but not a client.”

Earl is playing media darling, as he’s surrounded by cameras. TV giants Telemundo and Univision are on hand covering tonight’s festivities. Earl’s upcoming marriage has made him a tour success story. “I like the most in a woman to reflect me – like a mirror,” Earl says with raspy voice, putting his hand in front of his face to mime a mirror. He profoundly adds, “I believe everyone reflects everyone else in life.” True. His future wife is by his side; not understanding a single damn word he says.

This evening’s social is combined with a beauty pageant; featuring women who are signed up on the AmoLatino site. The reasoning is to prove that, “yes,” these beautiful women are real – and not actually dudes with hairy backs. And not only are the women real, but they will put on their smallest bikinis and parade around in front of their future potential husbands. Hundreds of attendees have filtered into the main room for the commencement of the big event.

“We have a great show for you,” Larry says from on stage. His words are translated in Spanish for the audience. “This is AmoLatino’s inaugural Miss Columbia 2011 beauty pageant.”

The beauty contest is judged by an astute panel of experts: three guys from the mail order bride tour and an eye-candy-tastic Colombian TV celebrity. Backstage is a hustle and bustle of costume changes and shouts of “muchachas!” Large men in nice suits help the beauty contestants on stage. Christina the bad girl in red. Rosalita with fire in her eyes. Scarlet – oh sweet Scarlet. Samantha adds a capper by handing a red rose to Ethan in the audience. Fierce and fiery contenders with husbands in their eyes. We get to see them wearing different clothes while men with sweaty brows look on in the humid room.

“Ugly dress,” says the catty reporter from Telemundo, who sits next to me. “Plastico,” she exclaims when the contestants reemerge wearing tiny bikinis. Since Colombia is the plastic surgery capital of the world, fake boobs are abound; uplifted booties defy laws of physics. (Do none of these beautiful women wearing tiny bikinis have boyfriends?)
“Colombian women are very natural, beautiful women. But here, you look, ‘big bumps,’” she says; referring to the sea of artificial implants.

Perhaps Isabel Ramirez of Telemundo is failing to see the larger picture: When one is seeking a wife, it is best to see her first in a bikini and high heels and have her judged by strangers.

I ask if the sadness is because many of the women come from poor sections of Medellin such as the slums of Santo Domingo.

“I don’t think these women are poor – these are women who want it easy,” she theorizes. “I spoke with some of the ladies. They don’t want a husband. They don’t want babies. These girls want money and luxury and travel. Not love.” More explanation: “In Colombia we have a big problem with narcotraffic,” she says. “The narcotraffic changed the dreams of Colombian women.” Isabel explains that this has created a superficial mentality amongst a certain type of women in society. “They want to get money for big bumps!” she exclaims. “If you want a good wife, you don’t put her in a little dress. You don’t find her at a beauty pageant. Not your wife—not the mother of your babies.”

The pageant is narrowed down to the five finalists. Through a translator, the contestants are asked:

“Describe your perfect man.”

Translation: “I want a man who will make me feel like a princess.”

“Where will you be in 5 years?”

Translation: “I want to change the world or be a publicist.”

The winner of the beauty pageant is announced. Crying. Controversy. A sea of confetti. The brown haired beauty is awarded with a brand new motorbike. You’d almost expect the winner of a mail order bride beauty contest to be married right on stage to strains of the Star Spangled Banner while American dollar bills rain from the ceiling – and Ed McMahon coming back from the dead to hand out one of those really large checks.

Instead, the translator interprets her words: “She is happy and surprised.”

Afterward, we eat cake. “Everybody wants love,” Isabel summarizes, as the vivacious pageant winner stands next to her new motorbike; illuminated by a backdrop of sparklers. “But it’s not possible to find true love in six days. The girls don’t speak English and the men don’t speak Spanish.” She adds, “Maybe you can get sex and enjoyment – but not love. Love is something big.”

The Man Needs To Take Charge

Earl looks bleary-eyed and wrecked (like someone would if they spent a week in the jungle snorting coke off a Bowie knife). A piece of work, he declares: “I did eight shots of vodka last night. (Pause.) And they were double shots.”

We walk down the hallway towards the lobby. I ask, “Did you have fun being interviewed on Colombian TV?”
“I don’t know how cool that was,” Earl replies – flashing paranoia.
“Why?”
“Because I’m an American saying I’m marrying a Colombian woman on TV.”
“What’s the worst case scenario?” I question.
“I’d get killed or kidnapped.”
(Pause.) “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”

A theater of uncomfortable is being acted out in the lobby. A dozen men are waiting for their dates to show up – most of whom they’ve never met. Some of the women are flying in from other cities. Awkward body language as the women arrive – forced interactions; guys attempting to hold hands; uncomfortable silences, – a sad play unfolding as everyone’s back story is written clearly on their faces.

“My heart is broken, says Derek; dressed in a blue shirt with the sleeves cut off. Twice divorced, Derek’s been out of the dating scene for the last 15 years. This afternoon he was stood up by a woman who works as a model for a local beer company. “I got my first kiss last night in the cab. We’ve been hanging out 5 days straight,” Derek says. “Today she didn’t show up.” (Did Derek lock in too early?)

Better luck for Bart. He’s been on twenty dates over the course of the tour. In fact, a 40-year old woman he had a tryst with earlier wants to set him up with her 20-year old daughter – to keep it in the family. Still, Bart is irked about his current rendezvous: “She can’t get a taxi here because it’s raining and her clothes are wet!?” he questions with disbelief.
“She wants you to meet her at this restaurant,” says one of the Russian tour assistants, handing him a slip of paper.
“Why can’t she come here? I’ll pay for the cab.”
“She said her taxi crashed.”
“The other one said her kid is throwing up!” Bart scoffs. “This is a new twist!”

Ethan walks past front desk. Just back from a date, he doesn’t look happy; he also got stood up. “She said she had class or something. So I went on a blind date with a friend of one of the translators,” he says. “We went to the mall and walked around for a while then came back here.” His new conclusion: “It’s hard when a translator is tagging along.”
“Could she speak English?” I ask.

“Not a word,” he says with a laugh.

“A bunch of the guys are meeting for drinks at Hooters.” Barry says, asking if I like to go with the group. I tell him I can’t because I have a date.

This afternoon, I went on the AmoLatino site. I typed in the words “artist,” “journalist,” and “bikini model.” About a dozen stunning woman popped up on the page – all who looked like their photos were taken at the same glamour studio. Just like ordering off of EBay, I simply made a list of the five women I wanted to date. Now it’s being set up.

The brain center of international dating is situated in a hospitality suite on the hotel’s fifth floor. If men on the tour want a date, they just ask the Russian women and it will be arranged – just like the village matchmakers in Fiddler on the Roof.

“Ethan is going home tomorrow,” the Russian matchmaker says over the phone to a representative at the local agency. “He wants to send chocolates for Lady Diana. Can he send it to your office?”

Sitting on the couch, Fernando, is being briefed on his dates, “The lady who is coming tonight has two kids,” he is told. “And the 18-year old – she has accepted your date as well.”

He provides more details: “She’s 18-years old so her mom is coming with because she’s still a virgin.”

I nod my head.

“The other one has kids so I’m not really interested because I can get that back home.”
“Have you met anyone yet who you’d travel back to Colombia for?” I ask.
“Not yet,” he says, pulling out a long list of phone numbers he’s accumulated.
“If it goes well will you come back again?”
“Yes, but I’ll come back alone.”

Looking at my list of potential wives, my Russian matchmaker says, “Do you want all five of these women together?”
“Do guys do that?” I ask – wondering if a harem is an option.
“You know that jealousy runs this country?” Chris says with a chuckle.
“Tonight you have a date at 8pm,” she confirms.

All I know is, I’m the man – I need to take charge. Last night, Brady didn’t take charge. He met up with the girl he was corresponding with. His teenaged date chose the restaurant and brought along her mom, sister, nephew, and a neighbor. Brady had to flip the bill for everyone – including a translator (the teenager couldn’t speak English). Is it custom in Colombia to bring along an extended family for a first date? Or maybe: “The gringos in town – let’s eat everyone!”

Outside the local dating agency office, near Parque San Antonio, I wait for my date, Christina. My trusty translator is by my side. I have butterflies in my stomach. My date is thirty minutes late. I’m nervous. Why am I nervous? It’s a strange sensation that someone I’ve never met might reject me. I’m not really looking for a wife, but sparks could fly.

Ethan is wearing his best dress pants. He comes out of the office looking visibly hurt.

“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Not so good,” he says. “The address they gave for the agency was wrong. Then the girl cancelled a half hour before the date.”

I feel bad for Ethan. A genuine nice guy, tomorrow he’ll be on a plane back to Indiana without a wife – sometimes that’s where the flow takes you. A cab finally pulls up. My potential future wife is inside. Christina is very attractive – blond; wearing a low cut dress. Is she the one? How many international weddings have been instigated with these exact same feelings?

“Let’s go for drinks!” I suggest with a smile.

After a few minutes of conferring with my translator: “She wants dinner.”

Okay, if that’s the case, then I need to be the man and choose the restaurant.

“She wants to go for Italian food,” my translator relays.

Sure, she also chooses the restaurant, but I’m still the man who is taking charge. Christina orders a full meal. I order soup. Her cell phone goes off 15 minutes into the date. She stays on the phone for the next 10 minutes – talking rapidly in Spanish, leaving me swirling my spoon in my soup.

What follows is the awkwardness of a blind date mixed with the factor of not being able to communicate – where all small talk is filtered through a third party translator with a two to three-minute lag between responses. It’s agreed that we both like music. Big laughs. A momentary connection is made over having seen the same movie. When two people can’t speak the same language, each of their attempts at communication must sound like baby talk. I imagine the small talk Brady had to make when he took an entire family out for a blind date. Is this how most good marriages start?

Though very pleasant and attractive, we literally can’t communicate – the punchlines to all my jokes are lost in translation. I end up talking to my translator the majority of the long two-hour date. Even if we did hit it off, I’m leaving tomorrow for San Francisco. That pretty much leaves tonight for getting married. And what would life be like back in California without a translator tagging along? Wedding bells will have to wait; once the bill’s paid she abruptly wants to go home.

“You need to give her 60,000 pesos for her cab ride home,” states my translator.

It’s strange handing over handfuls of money to my date. If sex were somehow involved, these rules of attraction would make more sense. Instead it has been an evening with two people who can’t speak the same language straining to have a conversation through a third party translator.

“She liked you – I could tell,” my translator says as her cab pulls away.

That’s nice to hear, but why do I feel slightly creepy, alone, and a little bit sad? Is it love or a ticket to the land of Tom Cruise and Coca Cola when it comes to the rules of attraction conspired with an American globalization twist?

I look over at a table of stunning women dining at an outdoor restaurant; laughing to the beat of life, in this truly heartbreaking and beautiful world.